She was potentially the next Virginia Woolf, minus the stones in her pocket. Instead she kept paper cranes, drawings of airplanes, and a made-up map of the Universe according to a mixtape she said she’d bring with her in a submarine vacation. Virginia Woolf, plus contemporaryism and some love for mankind. And when I say Virginia Woolf, I mean that part of her that loved herself so much; so much that her last gasp was a moment of eternity signaling something – not “I don’t understand,” more of, “Thank you.” Penelope was her name.

And when she fought with her boyfriend she’d always quote Tom Robbins, saying: “Who knows how to make Love stay?” The boyfriend, charming but innocent, stays silent. He can only offer a hand to hold. Large portions of his brain were attributed to B-Movies and ‘90s music. What made her fall in love with him was the very simple phrase she wrote on her diary the first night she met him in a concert of mediocre bands and drunken mistakes: The Beauty Of Almost There, But Not Quite.

*

Owen believed that the only difference between him and Sartre was: “The existentialist came first; therefore he had dibs on giving names for our feelings, experiences, and beliefs. That’s the only way those cheap philosophers get paid.” He continued, in his thick Angelino accent: “Fucking dead white males were just recognized because the world thought that the intellect was unchartered territory, and fucking dead white males took advantage of the world’s stupidity. They started pissing and marking their territories by giving names to experiences and making a map of reality.” They had this conversation in a goddamn tattoo parlor, while waiting for an 18 year-old girl get the name Jeff on her nape.

*

The best part of their relationship with each other was how Penelope was such a good listener. She knew exactly how to read Owen; she knew when to believe him and when he would contradict himself eventually. But she kept all this to a diary, secret from the world, entitled: “How To Make Love Stay.” On the first leaf, she vowed to take the diary to her grave. In support of this, she wrote: “If I were able to figure it out, then there will be no mystery to human life. If I weren’t able to figure it out, then I’d rather take this with me to heaven/hell/nirvana hoping that my journey goes on, with this pretty little diary.” All this were written in printed letters, so thin that you’d think a ghost wrote it.

Penelope was a good listener, but she carried a burden. She sensed false enlightenment from her conversations with Owen. She wrote: “It feels like smoking a pack of reds… in one quick, dirty hour.”

She went back to that page where she wrote the night they first met. Tears streamed down her sullen cheeks, and her Mona Lisa fingers struggled to keep those watery demons from coming. It was debatable, if The Beauty Of Almost, But Not Quite, was ever justified. Owen was always a project. What drew Penelope into him was the fact that his end result remained a mystery. Whether it was authentic or a mockery, she believed, was for her to discover.

*

A few days after, Owen transformed into a walking citation, re: The Destiny of Man by Nicolas Berdyaev.

*

Penelope could not rely on anything (even herself) to understand Owen’s quick changes of heart. She could not rely on her paper cranes, her drawings of airplanes, and maps of the Universe according to songs. Except, perhaps, for this one ballad by The Smiths, that went: “To die by your side/ is such a heavenly way to die.” The tune was a blissful distraction from the chaotic black hole in front of her, having sex with her, cutting her open with no apparent cause, leaving her high, dry, unwanted, and unconsciously masochistic. Straits opened up in her skin, and darkness crept in her body and soul like a stealthy little child searching for food in the middle of the night.

*

To love a person is to say:
You will not die.

*

In the 64th page of “How To Make Love Stay,” a bloodied Gillette was glued to the leaf. The blood was so real that you could taste it from a sharp stare. It was hauntingly beautiful, the way Homer described the hanging bodies of Odysseus’ house help after punishing them for their relations with his wife’s suitors: “Their feet danced a little, but not for long.” There was nothing else in that leaf. Nothing but the DNA of Love and Death, wrapped in double-helix unison, answering the questions of Penelope Anne.

I am finally done with my dissertation on Contemporary Philippine Music. It covers Philippine music history from ’70s to the present date, which features artists such as Joey Pepe Smith, Freddie Aguilar, Eraserheads, Rivermaya, Parokya ni Edgar, Urbandub, Typecast, Tonight We Sleep, and of course, Don’t Forget, Clementine. I mapped out Philippine music history with the theories of hegemony, globalization, and orientalism as lenses to explain its movement. It includes one chapter (Chap IV) on the production of Don’t Forget, Clementine’s independent debut album, Grace, And Dragging Her Wings, as an example of Contemporary Philippine Music’s modes of production, promotion, and utility of Western influence.

Just by a long shot, if you want a copy, let me know right here, or e-mail me at mjdsayson@yahoo.com. I don’t see why anyone would want one unless you have the time in the world to read 100 pages of my blood and tears. And i think it’s worth it, and I’m a proud boy.